I’ve made the mistake of finally opening up and telling this story to some of you within the last few months. You all whined “You should put that on Facebook!” So here it goes. I can only hope my story telling abilities make Huey proud.
In elementary school I (along with Alicia Barishman (my very first BFF), Myrna Sanders, Weslea Snyder, Danny Tuggle, and Carl Wells) attended Linwood Fundamental Academy in the East End (it’s closed now). Linwood was split into two fractions for each grade level: the so-called smart kids, and the so-called almost as smart kids. Yours truly made it through K through 6 in the so-called smart group (note – Alicia, Myrna and I were usually 1-2-3 in our class somehow and were close – but even they don’t know this story). We were the privileged elite. We had stars on our bellies, ate grey poupon on our hot dogs, snacked on only the best paste and slept on waterbeds after being fed grapes by the pre-schoolers down the street at nap time while the other kids slept on mats. Ok, that’s all a slight exaggeration, but you get what I’m saying.
Anyway, the so-called smart kids went through Linwood with these teachers: In kindergarten we had Mrs. Weinstein. Knowing what I know now I’d say that Mrs. Weinstein was hotter than a fur coat in Zimbabwe. Hotter than a preacher’s knee even. She was a brickhouse. She didn’t wear a bra. Boys – you’d do her. First grade brought Mrs. Wuest, who looked like a pretty Quaker Oats man, if that’s possible. The “smartest kids” got to massage her back while the rest of the class played seven up. Dumb asses. The second grade was Mrs. Lackey, who always got on me about eating my dessert first (thinking back I should have listened to her – what you’re about to read might not have happened). The third grade was Mrs. Moyer, a nice, nice, nice, older woman. I LOVED Mrs. Moyer. Then it was downhill from there.
The fourth grade brought us Dottie Cook. Mrs. Cook was a mean looking son of a biscuit eating bulldog. She was tall. She had short hair. Had I known what the term “Butch” meant then I’m sure I would have stereotyped her right into a commitment ceremony with Ellen DeGeneres, although that would have been statutory r- whatever ANYWAY she had that so-called look. She made us learn Japanese. Why do that to a fourth grader? I see no value in that – the last time I went to Benihana the chef’s name was Mike and he spoke English better than I do. She effin’ scared me like no teacher ever had. My sadistic mother, however, loved her.
Several of the teachers at Linwood traumatized us with incentives for high grades starting at the fourth grade level. In the fifth grade it was a trip to Mrs. Buquo’s house in Pleasant Ridge for a cookout. In the sixth grade it was an ice-cream social after school with Mrs. Shanks (God rest her soul). Mrs. Cook started the madness off in the fourth grade with a swim party at a hotel in Kentucky (I don’t remember which one – I don’t swim – swimming ruins relaxers - it was traumatizing ok?)
Being that this was my first competition to kick some 4th grade ass, the stress was a little too much to handle. Thus it was in the fourth grade that I first began to gain weight – in my stomach. Wait for it.
In the early 80’s there wasn’t much said about weight. No one really explained it to us. Stress eating. WTF? I didn’t understand weight. You’ll see shortly I also didn’t understand a lot of shit. Now let’s concentrate on my sadistic Mommie – who as I write this has probably gathered her friends and family with her in heaven as I reminisce, and are laughing hysterically at me right now.
For those of you who don’t know, I grew up in Winton Hills. When my mom moved there in 1963, it was a much happier and nice place to live. People WANTED to live there. Pan to 1983-1984, things aren’t horrible yet, but they are getting there. The young girls in the neighborhood are starting to sex it up and some are running their mouths about it. And even worse, they are starting to get pregnant. My mom walked me to the bus stop every day. After I got on my bus, she would get on hers and go to work. One morning we walked past a white car with fogged up windows. The car was as my Bishop would say “rockin’ and shakin’ and shakin’ and rockin’”. Stealing a look inside I could see it was the neighborhood garden tool who at this point had already given birth a couple of times. I won’t say her name because I know at least one of you knows her.
My mom, at this point madder than a dog in a hubcap factory, chose this moment to teach me about the birds and the bees. It went just like this: “IF YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO HAVE A BABY, YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I was eight. Maybe nine. How old are you in the fourth grade? Don’t remember much after “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Even worse, I don’t really understand what’s going on in the car at this point and what that has to do with having a baby and getting put out. Y’all thought my mom was nice didn’t you? Silly rabbits.
Unfortunately, at some point in the year there was also a sixth grader at my school who got pregnant. My mom (who volunteered at my school) only told me that she couldn’t tell me what happened, but that she would be having a baby soon and don’t stare at her when her stomach grows.
Let’s get back to Demon Cook, I mean Dottie Cook, my fourth grade teacher. Teaching me Japanese. Making me write it. Math is hard. Reading and writing sucks. I can’t talk to my mom about it because she loves Mrs. Cook. So I start to talk to my plate. We talked a lot. I talked to ribs and barbecue sauces. I talked to fried fish on Fridays. I even talked to steak and fries at times. (For those of you cursing my mother – there were always vegetables involved – we had a very healthy cat – I didn’t say I ate them.) So my stomach started growing. And so you have a naive (read dumb ass) fourth grader, afraid of her teacher, afraid of an angry, crazy mother, doesn’t get the birds and the bees things. All I know is that other girl’s stomach is starting growing too and she had a baby. Every time some hoodrat in my hood’s stomach grows, she has a baby. So of course – I must be having a baby too. Shit, I’m pregnant in the 4th grade. It sucks to be me.
What the hell do I do now? I’m all washed up at nine. What do you do with a baby? I mean I have an idea – I have some baby dolls at home. But my mom won’t even let me have a Baby Alive. She says they draw roaches. Oh my God – babies draw roaches! I can’t have a baby. My mom is gonna punch me right in the throat. She hates roaches. How did this happen? When did this happen? How do I hide it? Where am I gonna live after she kicks me out of the house? I’m afraid of my aunts too so I can’t live with them. WTF? What do I effin’ do. I’m gonna end up like that garden tool in the white car. Wow I didn’t even make it to twelve like she did . . .
I promise you, the rest of the fourth grade was a blur. I was constantly afraid. I never told ANYONE about my little bundle of terror that wasn’t really on the way. I waited for my mom to confront me but it never happened. I waited for the other kids in my neighborhood to tease me but that didn’t happen either. I didn’t even know how the baby was supposed to get out of my belly. Eventually it just went away. (It came back later in life by the way - still no baby though). I think I stayed blacked out for much of that year. You’ll be happy to know, however, I did make that swim party. I probably didn’t get in the water though.
I’m happy that I was able to share that story with my mom before she passed away last year. Those of you who knew her can probably guess what her reaction was. I’ll tell you what, it wasn’t, “Oh sweetie, you should have come to me. We would have talked” so much as it was uncontrollable maniacal laughter at my expense and more praise for Mrs. Cook. And by the way, we never, ever, reeeally had THAT talk.
Thanks mom.
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